Dire Orrian Trident of Water

The Dire Orrian Trident of Water rests on a driftwood pedestal in the captain’s cabin, its head a triad of pronged talons that curl like kelp caught in a lazy current. The blade is a storm-dark iron, veined with a pale, almost luminescent blue patina that seems to shimmer when the room fills with salt air. Three tines sweep outward in a disciplined arc, each one etched with delicate sigils that look like tiny spirals of foam and reef. The haft is wrapped in eel-skin leather, slick with seawater and sweat, so it never slips no matter how hard the wind howls through the rigging. A faint scent of brine clings to the wood, and a shallow, internal glow threads its way along the carved runes, like a membrane of light under a tide pool. Its appearance is more than ornamental. The trident feels wrought for the long haul—a weapon tempered by storms and memory. Lorekeepers whisper that it was forged in the drowned forges of Orrian ports, fed by the stubborn will of sailors who refused to abandon their comrades to the sea. A hydromancer’s touch put a pulse of water-soul into the metal, so that near salt air the sigils brighten and the blade seems to hum with a current of its own. In tavern tales and merchant ledger rumors, the trident has passed from captain to crew, a pledge to defend the last boat’s wake against reefs of fate. Those who have held it swear the prongs cut through fear as cleanly as they cut through waves, and that the very air around it tastes of rain after a drought. In gameplay, the Dire Orrian Trident of Water feels like a covenant between offense and mercy. Its base strikes carry the cold bite of seawater—sharp, precise, and capable of breaking through a foe’s guard with a swift, upheaving thrust. When the user channels the trident’s water affinity, a chorus of splashes and spray erupts, creating a narrow arc of sloshing pressure that can push enemies back, disrupt their footing, and open space for an ally’s follow-up. The weapon’s most telling moment comes in its hydro-touched prowess: a cleaving sweep that leaves a misty veil on the ground, aiding allies with concealment or restoring a measure of stamina as if the sea itself breathed life back into them. Some wielders claim it can siphon a touch of vitality from a drowning strike to fuel a healing stream, stitching together fragile skirmishes into a thread of survival. It’s a rare companion for those who navigate both the cutting edge of battle and the softer currents of convoy and crew, a reminder that power in wars often travels in the wake of water. Price talk comes softly at markets and harbors, nothing flashy, nothing loud—just the way tides move. At Saddlebag Exchange, where traders trade stories as readily as goods, the trident’s ledger entry reads with a gravity that matches the weapon’s weight. It’s listed around three gold coins, fluctuate with tides and the seller’s tale, sometimes more when a storm-battered captain bargains hard, sometimes less when a buyer arrives with pearl drones and salted cloth. The negotiation itself feels like a ritual—barter, echo, oath—and suddenly the trident becomes more than metal; it becomes a pledge to remember the sea, to defend a ship’s last light, and to trust that water will always find a way to open a path.